The last one standing tall and stark

The last one standing, tall and stark,

a dried-out giant in the patch.

Its head, a dark and heavy arc,

too full to hold, beyond all match

for youthful sun. The petals, brown,

like ragged lace, begin to fray.

A weary monarch, bending down,

to give its bounty to the clay.

Each seed a promise, hard and deep,

a thousand futures, black and round.

While life, it seems, has gone to sleep

within this stalk, now dry and unsound.

A final stage, no bright display,

just quiet falling, slow release.

A beauty in its faded way,

a long, unburdened, final peace.